


Perfume and Vinegar

by days_of_storm



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awkwardness, Deductions, Frustration, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Realisations, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-18 00:08:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11279634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days_of_storm/pseuds/days_of_storm
Summary: Sherlock watches John's unusual behaviour and tries to deduce the reasons for it.





	Perfume and Vinegar

**Author's Note:**

> I have never really written anything longish from Sherlock's POV, and I figured that I could try my hands at it. This is, for now, a standalone.

“Just stop it,” John murmured and repeatedly pressed down harder on a key of his keyboard than could possibly be justified – or, Sherlock thought, only be justified if he indeed wanted his computer to stop functioning, which was out of the question, really.

John had been tense since he had come home. Sherlock had smelled antiseptic, four different perfumes, all of them of the flowery kind, talcum powder, a hint of vinegar, and freshly applied cologne as well as cold sweat when he had passed him on the way to the kitchen. Those smells were normal for John, though the perfumes were somewhat unusual in their strengths, implying that John had spent quite a bit of time with each of the perfume wearing patients. He had been hot during lunch hour, undoubtedly fleeing the clinic in search of food – finding only chips – only to realise that he had been sweating and applying cologne before leaving work, probably taking the bus and wanting to spare the other passengers the proof of his hard labour. Or, more likely, annoying labour.

Sherlock noted in the back of his head that, usually, John would not refresh the cologne, but use it and deodorant just after lunch before seeing new patients. So today he must have been distracted after lunch. Possibly by his disappointing serving of undercooked chips which he had tried to drown in vinegar, or by one of the flowery-perfume wearing patients.

While John had made tea he had been fidgeting much more than was usual. So much so that Sherlock became intrigued as to why he behaved that way. But John had not even looked at him when he had come into the kitchen under the pretence of also wanting some tea, not even acknowledging him when he left again without having gotten any.

He had final proof of John’s strange state of mind when he returned to the sitting room without his own tea, too. Then he had sat down and pulled his laptop from under the couch where he usually hid it – still believing that Sherlock didn’t know, while Sherlock always found an excuse to look away when he produced it magically from nowhere – this time not caring whether Sherlock saw him do it, and opened it, typing something into the search bar with relative speed.  

The quiet order came a couple of minutes after that, and while Sherlock couldn’t see what John was doing, he was fairly sure that he had hit a patch of bad internet service, which always occurred around this time of day and which John had sworn Sherlock had made up in order to get around doing research for a case he had shelved for being only a 5 the other day.

“John,” Sherlock said, trying to sound calm, maybe somewhat reassuring, but a little bit annoyed at the complete lack of greeting or even acknowledgement, and mostly gentle. John usually went for gentle when Sherlock was in a similar situation, so he hoped that he might respond to that as well.

“What?” John snapped, finally raising his eyes to look at Sherlock. He looked tired, no, exhausted, and he had obviously not picked up on Sherlock’s undertones.

He had slept well, Sherlock had noticed this morning, while John had had a quick breakfast, skimming the newspaper for interesting cases before running off to work. But now the skin of his throat was irritated just beneath his collar which Sherlock could see now that he had turned his head. He was about to inch closer to John to get a better look when he remembered that John had frequently told him to stay out of his personal space. While John’s concept of personal space had changed lightly during the months they had lived together, Sherlock had learned quickly that John would not appreciate it if he just took hold of whichever of John’s body parts was of immediate interest to him without consulting him first. The case of the Blind Banker and their waltz at the train tracks had led to very clear words on John’s side, and a sinking feeling of disappointment and anxiousness on Sherlock’s. It added a layer of things he had to concentrate on when he was working, and pulling back from John when his instincts told him to move nearer had proved to distract him from thinking more than once.

A lot of time had passed since then, and Sherlock had learned where John drew his lines in life, but right now that line seemed extended quite a lot further than usual and Sherlock wondered why.

He trusted himself and their friendship enough to not be entirely disheartened by John’s reaction, but he had to admit that he felt blocked out. Clearly something was the matter and he would be a rubbish friend if he did not try to find out what it was, if only to get John to behave in his normal patterns and not worry Sherlock unduly while he had other things to think about.

“Are you okay?” he asked in the same tone of voice as before – or at least that had been his intention until he opened his mouth and the words that escaped him sounded really very worried, even to his own ears.

John seemed physically taken aback, leaning away from him, but staring with something like … awe, surprise, worry, regret, realisation … that last one stumped Sherlock and he swallowed hard, suddenly finding himself on unfamiliar grounds. John was sweating again, he noted, more in the back of his mind, but loudly enough for this information to appear relevant somehow, even if he did not yet know what to do with it. He hated to be in this position. “You just … seem …,” Sherlock had spoken without meaning to and suddenly wondered whether John would rather have him gone from the room.

John blinked, once, twice, then he licked his lips and inhaled deeply only to exhale again. “I’m just tired, I think. Rough day.” That was not quite the truth, Sherlock noticed immediately, or not entirely at least. John’s light inclination of the head, his eyes moving left, the way the rest of his face seemed expressionless but his pupils dilated a little. Fear of discovery, Sherlock noticed, comparing John’s reaction with those in his memory. Yes, John was not quite honest with him but it wasn’t out of spite or because he was annoyed and wanted to keep him from asking further. This seemed like an invitation to do so specifically. Sherlock wondered what made him think that, as he usually overruled this line of thought in favour of conventional English silence.

“Is there … anything I can do?” he heard himself ask, taking hold of a cushion which sat next to him on the couch, allowing his fingers to grip it tightly in order not to let the surprise at his words show on his face. It worked until John sat up properly and leaned forward. The shirt opened a little wider and Sherlock could see scratch marks on John’s skin.

He felt cold sweat on his hands. Panic. Why? There was no reason for that at all. The windows were closed and so were the doors to the sitting room. No noises from outside indicated immediate danger and yet …

“Are you okay, Sherlock?” John asked incredulously. “Why are you … nice?”

“Would you say nice, precisely?” Banter. That usually worked to put John at ease, though John always knew that Sherlock did it on purpose and not because it came to him in the spur of the moment. It worked again this time and the left corner of John’s mouth rose in a smirk.

“Well. Considerate. Not … typical _you_ behaviour.”

Sherlock huffed, feeling much more at ease now that John’s features had softened and his fingers had stopped fidgeting. “You just seem a little … stressed?”

John exhaled sharply and his ears gained colour. Suddenly Sherlock didn’t know where to look. “You are the only consulting detective in the world and you suggest that I seem? A Little? Really?”

“Well, I did not want to offend you and …”

“Jesus, Sherlock!” John’s blush was gone and replaced by an expression of disbelief. “Are you quite sure you are alright?” John looked worried, and amused, and somewhat less exhausted than he had a moment ago. Sherlock wasn’t sure whether he should be worried or relieved.

“I am not sure what to say,” he admitted, quite aware that he might just add to John’s confusion but unable to formulate any other thought, really.

“I’m sorry,” John sighed. “I did not mean to … well … it’s just not my day.”

“Which of the ladies was the most distracting?” Sherlock asked, knowing that he could always distract John by stating the obvious, or, as he had been told by John many times, the utterly impossible.

His words had the desired effect. John closed his laptop and stared at him. “Mrs. Blackwell,” John finally said, looking at Sherlock with an expression that allowed for a little more hope.

“Spent a lot of time in your office?”

“Almost twenty minutes.”

“And with no ailment.”

“Well,” John’s blush returned and Sherlock’s tongue suddenly felt strangely dry. “I wouldn’t say that.” John looked away for a moment and he clasped his hands in front of him as if trying to convince someone of an argument he was making.

Sherlock wondered whether he would tell him more, but he found that he really did not want to know about Mrs. Blackwell’s _ailment_. His eyes settled on the marks on John’s neck and suddenly he felt slightly ill.

“There were others,” he said in order to break through the awkward silence that threatened to descend on the room.

“Miss McKenzie, yes. She did not even have an appointment.” John laughed incredulously and Sherlock felt cold sweat tickle the roots of his hair. Nothing about this was amusing.

“And Miss Jefferson. She’s engaged to be married soon and yet …god, I shouldn’t be telling you this. I’m breaking every rule in the book here.”

Sherlock watched John, suddenly feeling quite estranged from him. He sat there, his body sending signs of great discomfort, annoyance, irritation, even something like shock, but his face spoke a different language. It was not the first time that Sherlock failed at reading John. It had happened several times since they had moved in together and each time had been incredibly awkward for Sherlock. He wasn’t sure how John felt about those moments, if he even had noticed them at all, because they had never talked about them.

“The fourth?” he asked instead, morbidly fascinated with the way his body felt unfamiliar, his hands not quite registering his thighs into which they dug. Instead, he watched John’s hands which were still restless.

John looked at him then, his expression both curious and … sad? Disappointed? Sherlock swallowed hard and looked away.

“The only one who did not come on to me,” John’s voice sounded hollow and when Sherlock dared to look at him he found that he had turned away from him. “She was the first. So things were still fine.”

“Did you eat after?”

“Before,” John seemed to resign himself to Sherlock’s deductions. He wasn’t impressed or mystified or even in the least curious about how he had reached his conclusions.

“Why the cologne?”

“Because you would smell them and we would have this conversation. But of course you still did.”

Sherlock had no idea what to say to that so he inhaled deeply and shot upright. “Right. I’ll go and get you that tea you were making.”

John looked at him then and Sherlock felt his world tilt a little. He had never been looked at like he was then and something paralysed him. He swayed awkwardly on the spot, unable to sit back down but equally unable to lift his foot and take a step forward.

“You alright?” John asked quietly.

“No,” Sherlock said, much to his own surprise. “I don’t know,” he added a moment later, feeling that it was truer than his initial answer.

“Sit down, Sherlock.”

He sat.

“Today I realised something,” John began and Sherlock began counting the spots of light that the lamp from the kitchen projected through the rough glass window onto the wallpaper.

Sherlock knew that John expected a snarky remark, but somehow his tongue refused to work on him.

“I had two very beautiful, married women flirt with me, and one young lady who is engaged to be married.”

Sherlock’s eyes settled on John’s neck. “And one was successful?”

“What?” John stared at him, all wide-eyed surprise.

“One was successful?”

“I heard you the first time I’m just … no, Jesus, Sherlock.”

“The unmarried one? To uphold some sort of standard and chivalric code?”

John’s frown cut him deeply. “Of course not.”

“One of the married ones?” Sherlock wondered whether he should be impressed. He knew John was a ladies’ man, but they usually avoided the topic and Sherlock had always honestly believed John to be in some kind of danger when he was out on a date. Yet he knew that John did not appreciate it to be checked on during those times.  

John looked at him for a long time before he sighed heavily and shook his head. “No, Sherlock. None of them.”

“I … don’t understand.”

“They were all quite attractive.”

“Their perfumes are strikingly similar. All fairly … out there. Single women’s perfume. Or that of women who want to enjoy life, usually because their domestic life is quite tedious. Too young for their bearers, it seems.”

“Oh, that’s how you guessed.”

“I never guess, John, you know that.”

John huffed and shook his head lightly. “Right. You have theories instead. How many do you have right now?”

“About the perfume? Three. About other connections, seven.”

John rubbed his face. “You don’t get it, do you? You never get it right when it concerns you.”

Sherlock was properly confused now. A moment ago he had been certain that all of John’s patients had been shopping in the same place on Oxford Street, lured into the shop by an attractive man who told them that they were too self-less and that they deserved to feel wild and free or somesuch nonsense, and now he was confronted with a whole new conundrum. Emotions. And John being purposefully offensive, which was always difficult to bear. So instead of an answer, he blinked a few times and shrugged. “I know where you had lunch,” he tried instead, feeling his heart contract painfully when he saw John’s face contort and he figured that maybe not saying anything might spare him some of those uncomfortable emotions.

“You had chips. Undercooked. But there was enough vinegar.”

John shook his head and got up. “Good night, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sat in his chair for a long time, keeping himself from dissecting John’s words. He knew it would be the opposite of satisfying, so he carefully blanked his thoughts, pushing the uncomfortable emotions away, back into their boxes and crates. When his eyes fell on his watch he realised that it was long after midnight and that the lights in the flat were all switched off except for the desk lamp. John must have switched them off before he went upstairs. Something was different about the desk. He stood, grunting when his back cracked and his legs felt uncomfortably numb because his elbows had cut off blood circulation to his thighs.

There was a white sheet of paper on top of the files he had been reading earlier that day. John must have placed it there. He picked it up and squinted at it. John had written something with a pencil, but he had used the 5H pencil that sat next to the files on the desk and he had not pressed down hard enough to make his writing properly legible.

Sherlock sat down in the desk chair and flatted the paper out, seeing much better now that his eyes had gotten used to the dim light. _Nothing happened!_

For a few seconds, Sherlock gently traced the writing with his finger, feeling a weight lifting off his chest that he had not realised was there – had been there since he had smelled John’s different scents and seen his neck. John had been having a weird day and he had left him the message to make sure that Sherlock did not have to worry about anything. He must have scratched himself. He must have been baffled by the fact that several women, who incidentally happened to wear similar perfumes, had flirted with him, because after Sarah he had been careful not to flirt with people at work, knowing how uncomfortable things could get.

And then Sherlock had picked up on his strange mood, even though he had just wanted to be left alone, which explained John’s reaction. And nothing had happened.

Good.

Sherlock went to bed, the sheet of paper on his night stand, in case he woke up and began worrying again.  

And he did wake up only a few hours later. It was still dark, but he felt that he hadn’t slept long. A knock had woken him, and it was repeated just when Sherlock had blinked the sleep out of his eyes and his thoughts cleared. It couldn’t be a client. Not at that time of night. But an emergency, maybe? Something he had not taken seriously? A client he had ignored for too long?

“Come in,” he murmured and yawned widely when the door opened. It was John.

Sherlock forced his mouth closed and pushed himself up onto his elbows. “John? What is it?”

“I’m sorry for waking you up.”

Sherlock sat up on the bed, signalling his willingness to listen to John. He realised then that he always would listen to what John had to say, no matter the time of day.

“You’re not okay after all?”

John shook his head. “Can I come in?”

Sherlock nodded. “Of course. Or do you want me to … get up?”

“No, it’s not … it’s not a case or work, if that’s what you’re wondering. It’s just,” He rubbed his face. “I tried to sleep and I just couldn’t.”

Sherlock saw the scratch marks clearly now as John’s t-shirt was too large and exposed his collar bones. For a moment he stared at the shadow of his collar bones, marvelling at the fact that they seemed so sharp and fragile in comparison to the rest of John which was soft and strong and grounded …

“Not before I talked to you.”

“Talk then.” Sherlock looked at his face, hoping to find it less distracting but realising that it wasn’t. John looked truly worried now.

“I am sorry for acting the way I did earlier. I shouldn’t have treated you like that. I knew how you would react but I had somehow hoped that you wouldn’t. Not today.”

Sherlock did not know what to say, so he stayed silent, fighting the urge to let John’s expression distract him.

“Today I realised something. And I should have realised that much sooner, but somehow … I never truly considered …”

Sherlock heard John talk but somehow he wasn’t quite able to read between the lines. It took an almost desperate noise from John to make him realise that maybe he should just listen to what he actually said to him.

“Yes?”

“I don’t want them.” The words rushed out of John like something he was afraid of. A plaster ripped off. Speed in order to dampen the pain.

“I don’t understand.”

“Mrs. Blackwell and all the rest. I might have wanted them once, I might have actually led them on. I do flirt with them occasionally, but I never really thought that they might reciprocate like they did today.”

“Did you wake me up to tell me that you are disturbed by women, whom you flirted with previously, responding positively to your advances? Or do you suspect that they bonded and made it their mission to be generally distracting today?”

“No. Yes, no, of course not. That’s not the point.” John rubbed a hand through his hair and exhaled shakily. “The point is …”

“You don’t want them.” Sherlock stated, letting the words roll over his tongue before he let them go. He did not want them. And John wasn’t usually one to pass up on the advances of a beautiful lady. “Why not?”

“Because,” John moved closer to the bed only to stop again, his fingers finding the marks on his neck, scratching again. A nervous tick, then? Sherlock was truly surprised. Usually it was just John’s hand shaking and him licking his lips. He had never known that he had more self destructive coping mechanisms.

“Stop scratching, John,” he said quietly, hoping to sound sensible despite the late hour.

“I imaged taking them out. For dinner. For a movie. A walk on the Southbank.”

“Tedious,” Sherlock added, biting his tongue afterwards when he considered that maybe John wouldn’t appreciate a running commentary on whatever it was that he worked through. And not wanting a handful of ladies appeared to be quite a great deal to him. As Sherlock bit his tongue he realised that he suddenly felt much better. The strange, constricting feeling from earlier had returned when he had gone to bed, but now it seemed lifted off him.

“Yes,” John huffed out a bitter laugh. “That is exactly what I thought. I imagined taking them out and I couldn’t imagine enjoying myself.”

“John. Please, what is the point you are trying to make.”

“You really don’t know?”

Sherlock raised his hands above his head. “I haven’t the faintest.”

“You usually crash my dates.”

“Do you want dating advice from me? Because if you do, I really don’t think …”

“No, idiot!” John shook his head and balled his hands into fists before uncurling them. They were still now, Sherlock noticed. His eyes jumped back to John’s face.

“I imagined you crashing those dates. And in each scenario that was the only truly enjoyable moment.” John’s shoulder sagged as if he had finally gotten rid of a huge weight he had been carrying.

Sherlock stared at him, repeating John’s words in his head, trying to make sense of them.

“I just needed to tell you. I’m sorry to have woken you up.”

He heard that John spoke, but he was still pre-occupied with what John might mean with his confession that he couldn’t speak – couldn’t even react.

“Good night. I’m sorry,” John seemed deflated now, exhausted, and disappointed and Sherlock did not understand, because he had just confessed that he did not mind him disturbing him while he was out on dates. So things were alright. Things were fine. He was allowed to worry about John and get him whenever he needed him, and John considered this transgressions to be okay. Was that really what he had meant? Or was it not exactly an okay to continue his practice but rather disappointment that none of those ladies were interesting to John?

Sherlock dropped down on the mattress and stared at the ceiling. Where those ladies not interesting to him because he was?

Was that what he had said?

What he had meant?

Had John meant to say that he preferred his presence to that of beautiful ladies who actively flirted with him?

He had said that he did not want them.

He had been disappointed when Sherlock had failed to read between the lines earlier, when he had been just as stumped.

Did he mean that he did not want them, but someone else? Could he be that someone else? Had John just implied that he’d prefer to go out on a date with him rather than with any of his female suitors?

Had John just tried again what he had tried on that very first night at Angelo’s when Sherlock had been so confused by John’s rebuttal to his suggestion that he might be interested in more than a flat-share when John’s interest in him had been quite obviously more than that? He had made sure to not leave a hint of a suggestion, unable to cope with the fact that he would, potentially, have someone around to share his work with. But now, years later, he knew John and he had never quite managed to forget that first night – had occasionally played it back in his mind, wondering if John would have reacted in a different way had he shown himself to be interested.

Over the years he had pushed down the notion of John’s interest in him and they had gone through so much together that Sherlock had finally convinced himself to have been wrong about him, even though there were so many hints scattered on their path. So he had stopped nursing his hope and suppressed it, together with all the other emotions that could cause problems, but now he seemed to be unable to even try.

John had come to his room in the middle of the night after leaving a written note that ensured him that it was not the ladies he was interested in – not anymore – and just now he had admitted that Sherlock had taken their place.

With a grunt, Sherlock rolled out of bed and took long strides towards the stair case. He was already half way up when he heard his name called out nervously. John lay on the couch in the living room, his fingernails worrying the reddened skin on his neck.

“John, stop hurting yourself,” Sherlock said quietly and then he sat down on the coffee table, looking long and hard at John. “I need you to clarify something,” he then said, pressing his hands together under his chin. “Are you saying you are not opposed to me interrupting your dates occasionally?”

“Occasionally?” John gave him a judgemental look and for a moment, everything seemed so simple. Then he returned to looking slightly scared and nothing was alright.

“Often,” Sherlock offered and John rolled his eyes.

“What I realised today, when one after the other, without any connection, apart from the perfume, apparently, showed quite a clear interest in, well, sleeping with me, I realised that I couldn’t. Even if things were easy. Even if there weren’t any angry husbands or fiancés involved. I couldn’t. Because of you.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure how to react or where to go from there, so he dropped his hands and just sat there and looked at John’s face, and John looked back at him, a strange calm settling between them.

“Do you want me?” Sherlock finally asked, having bitten back the words until he could no longer hold them in.

“I don’t know,” John smiled, finally, and Sherlock’s heart gave a start. He was surprised by how strong his physical reaction was to John’s smile. How much he had needed him to smile since he had come home. How much he needed that smile in general.

“I just know,” he continued, licking his lips distractedly, “that I think I have reached a point in life where I consider you to be my perfect date instead of … well, anyone else.”

Sherlock felt his pulse take up speed and his hands shook lightly, while his neck felt very warm all of the sudden. He hoped it was too dark for John to pick up on his reaction but he could feel the blush spread out onto his cheeks and knew that John couldn’t miss that.

“Why,” he began, his tongue too heavy, all of the sudden, and his throat too dry. So he tried again. “Why are you out here on the sofa?”

“I was hopeful that you might come out to talk to me.”

“And why were you upset with your computer earlier?”

John frowned, clearly confused for a moment before he smiled again, this time apologetically. Sherlock had to force himself to not reach out for him then, and he clasped his hands in front of him, conscious of how unlike him it must look.

“I did not know what to do with myself. How to talk to you. How to even think about it with you in the room. And I still don’t know. Not really. Where do we go from here?”

“John,” Sherlock tasted the sound of his name, feeling close to tears all of the sudden, and he was so surprised and offended by his physical reaction that he managed to sober up and find his voice again. “There is only one possible solution to your problem.”

“Is there?”

“Yes, obviously.” Sherlock shook his head with a smile, feeling light-headed when John mirrored it, relief plainly visible in his features. “We have to go on a date.”


End file.
